


The Slow And The Dead

by mad_martha



Series: All Roads Lead To Haven [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Supernatural, Valdemar Series - Mercedes Lackey
Genre: Fantasy Law Enforcement, Gen, Humour, Molluscs, The Author Regrets Everything, unusual foods, unusual sports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-29 21:56:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18302663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mad_martha/pseuds/mad_martha
Summary: That time when Dean introduced Hawkeye to unusual spectator sports …





	The Slow And The Dead

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MadamBeetroot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadamBeetroot/gifts).



> I'm not afraid to admit I have a tragically weak stomach, so just in case I'm not alone in that, I'm warning for mentions of unusual foods that may or may not gross you out - see the end notes for details.
> 
> In fact, to avoid spoiling the story all the notes are at the end :-)

"You usually have an audience when you practice here?" Hawkeye asked casually, watching Dean line up a shot.

"Now and then."  Dean let the arrow fly and grunted his annoyance when it landed slightly to the left of the bullseye.  He glanced around casually and was unsurprised to see the small crowd of Guards watching them.  "It's more of a thing in the summer, but ..."

"But?" Hawkeye asked dryly.

"But that's 'cause it's hot and I take my shirt off," Dean finished, smirking a little.

The archer snorted.  "What do you think?"

"I think they're here to see the famous Hawkeye, head of the Queen's Bowmen."

"The _bow_ , jackass."

"I'm not sold on it, gotta say.  What did you say it is?"

"Shin'a'in-style recurve.  Some of the Heralds like it, they find it easier to carry on circuit.  Give it a little time …  You can use armour-piercing heads with it."

"Against plate armour?  Seriously?  Doesn't feel like it has enough power behind it."

"It's deceptive."  Hawkeye gave Dean another arrow, watched him knock it and adjusted his grip slightly.  "Try again."

The next shot nicked the edge of the bullseye.  "All right, I think I'm getting the hang of this.  So, what - these are used by skirmishers?"

"Mostly."

Dean's next shot went straight in the black.  "Still prefer a longbow," he commented, as they went to retrieve the arrows from the butt.

"Yeah, well next time you come to the Collegium, you can try a couple of my war bows," Hawkeye said.  "Damned if I'm letting you loose with one of those on _these_ shitty butts though, the arrows'd punch right through 'em at this range."

"Come on, it can't be that bad - their archers are pretty good."

"Triumph of skill and optimism over adversity," was Hawkeye's retort.  "I've seen border Guard posts with better ranges."

"Border posts really need 'em," Dean said, a little amused.  He would have branded Hawkeye an archery snob, but he really wasn't; there was no purism in him, only a fanatical devotion to whatever worked best.  He was well aware that his own skills went well beyond normal, veering into preternatural, but while he didn't expect that level of skill from anyone else, he _did_ expect that naturally talented archers like Dean would strive to get as close to it as they possibly could.  And he was absolutely merciless in his opinions of those who failed to provide the archers under their command with suitable equipment and space to practice.

" _All_ the Guard posts should have 'em, including the City Guards.  They're not gonna be sitting on their asses here, looking pretty, if we end up on a war footing.  We'll need every archer we can muster to be on top form, and how are they supposed to do that with equipment like this?  It's a fuckin' disgrace, man."

"Uh-huh.  You maybe want to say that a little louder, in case the Commander didn't hear you?"

"He knows already."

Dean considered him, wondering if it was really the audience that was bothering Hawkeye.  People watched him at the Palace all the time, but that was usually because they were trying to learn from him.  It seemed a little odd that someone who had grown up in a circus should find being stared at uncomfortable, but Dean could see that while some of the watching Guards were genuinely interested, there was a hard-core group - mostly but not exclusively female - that was more interested in ogling them.

It didn't bother him.  He'd learned early that he was good-looking and there were advantages in that, and even now, when he was in a committed and monogamous relationship, he had no objection to being admired.  It seemed that Hawkeye didn't feel the same way though, and Dean was not insensitive to that.

"You want to pack up and go get a beer?" he asked.

"Sounds good."

"Where were you thinking of getting that drink?" Hawkeye asked casually, as they made for the exit.

"We're right on the edge of my sector, but there's some great Ruvani tabernas not far from here," Dean replied.  "We can probably get something to eat at the same time."

"I could eat, but not if the place is full of Guards."

"Yeah, no, I'm not eating at any place right outside the barracks," Dean agreed.  "Gods only know what some of 'em are serving up as 'fresh food'."

It was an early evening at the tail end of the summer, and the streets were busy with people flocking into taverns, inns and chop-houses.  Dean was cautious about his choice of eating places in this area, as Ruvani tastes – by Valdemaran standards at least – could be a little unexpected.  Hawkeye always assured Dean that he was broadminded in what he ate, having passed through many kingdoms during his peripatetic and eventful youth, and survived on some pretty desperate foods on occasion.  Still ... not everyone wanted to be offered a plate of deep-fried spicy crickets with a bowl of smoked caterpillars as a side dish.

That kind of thing could ruin your day if you weren't ready for it.

There was one hearty meal that could be had with some pretty solid entertainment alongside, though, and having grown up in a community that had comfortably rubbed shoulders with the Ruvanese for centuries, at least until relatively recently, Dean had no particular qualms about it.

"How adventurous are you?" he asked.  "About food, I mean?"

"Told you before, I'll try most things once," Hawkeye replied easily.

"In that case ..."  Dean took a sharp left down a small, poky alley and emerged a moment or two later into a little cobbled courtyard area that housed a busy-looking taberna.  The awnings were still out over the tables in the yard, and there were plenty of people sitting out there, drinking, socialising and playing board games while the light was still good, but anyone wanting food or the more specialised entertainment this place provided was inside.

"So what is this?" Hawkeye asked curiously.

Dean pointed up at the taberna's sign, which was a gaily painted image of a snail with an elaborate and colourful shell.  " _Si Kokhlias Tiras_ \- the Spiral Shell," he said.  "It's mostly a snail bar."

"A _what?_ "

"Snail bar …"  Dean paused, eyeing him.  "You cool with that?"

Hawkeye looked taken aback for a moment.  "What are we talking about here?"

"Snails cooked three ways.  Fried in garlic oil, steamed with onion sauce, or smoked with pepper.  They come with noodles, toasted bread or pickles."

Hawkeye opened his mouth and closed it again.  Then he shrugged.  "You know what?  If nothing else, I get to see Phil trying to keep a smile on his face when I tell him what I've been eating," he decided.  "Lead me to it."

"Atta boy!"  Dean clapped him on the shoulder.  "And hey, there's some fun as well - there's a race on."

"A race?"

"You'll see.  Let's get a drink first."

The taproom was doing good business already, but they managed to work their way to the bar and attract one of the servers.  Dean suggested that they put in an order for food for after the races, and Hawkeye, intrigued, readily agreed to this.

"What's the drink like?"

"Steer clear of the _tsipas_ until you've had something to eat, but the honey-beer's pretty good.  Landlady makes it herself."

" _Tsipas?_ "

"It's fermented grain spirits, it'll knock you on your ass if you're not ready for it," Dean said.

"Can't be worse than the stuff Tasha pulls out for special occasions."  Hawkeye grinned at him.  "Does your landlady know you drink it?"

"You planning to tell her?" Dean retorted.  The server plunked two mugs of frothy beer in front of them.  Dean paid him, pushed Hawkeye's drink over to him and indicated a back room.  "Come on, let's see what's happening."

"You said there's a race?" Hawkeye said, as they manoeuvred around the various patrons at the bar.

"Probably more than one.  There's usually a couple of novice and intermediate races, followed by the big one."

"Yeah, but what are they racing?"

Dean raised his eyebrows.  "It's a snail bar, man."

"How the fuck do you race snails?" Hawkeyed demanded incredulously.  "They're snails!"

"Hey, you're the one who was in the circus.  You telling me you never raced snails for money?"

"We had ferrets and parrots for that kind of shit!"

"You raced ferrets against parrots?  Who won?"

"You are such an asshole," Hawkeye told him.

"You keep saying that like it's a big surprise," Dean teased him.  "Come on, over here - "

There were several side rooms around the taproom; in one of the smaller ones there was a round table lined with a damp felt cloth.  It was white, and had a black circle in the centre with several circles radiating out from it at regular intervals, a little like an archery target.  Around the table were a number of people - almost exclusively male - who were removing snails from small pots or boxes and arranging them in the central circle.  There was a curious intensity to the atmosphere, and Hawkeye, who had been inclined to view it all a little flippantly, was reluctantly drawn in by it.

"Big-ass snails," he commented to Dean, rather impressed.

"Oh, these are just the small ones," Dean told him.  He edged them both a little closer.  "See the patterns painted on the shells, so they can tell which one's which?"

"So how does this work?"

"They stick some lettuce or other leaves around the edge of the table to act as a lure - "  Someone was doing this as he spoke, laying out some reasonably fresh parsley and other herbs around the edge of the table.  The snails were keen and their owners were having to repeatedly return them to the central circle.  "Then you let 'em loose and the first to make it over the outer circle wins.  In the big races, they have a different kind of track and they time 'em with a marked taper or water clock."

Hawkeye pursed his lips and nodded.  "Simple enough.  So what's the prize?"

"At this level?  Winner gets to eat all the losers' snails."

Hawkeye blinked.  "You kidding me?"

Dean smirked.  "Nope."

"Damn.  Hardcore, man."

A man held up a coloured handkerchief and said something, and suddenly the tension ratcheted up a notch or two.  A couple of snails were hastily moved back inside the circle again.  As if the creatures themselves could tell their moment was approaching, heads reared up and eyestalks waved.

The handkerchief dropped.  And the snails were off.

It was a little like watching a set of hobbled and blindfolded ice-skaters.  Some of them headed directly for the leaves, but some seemed to take oblique routes and blundered over each other, ponderously.  There was an odd moment where one decided to catch a ride on top of another and its owner was warned to remove it and return it to the starting circle.  While an argument about that raged between the snail's owner and the referee, two more snails lost their way, met each other head on, and decided they were more interested in exploring each other intimately.

Hawkeye prodded Dean in the bicep.  "I did _not_ come here for snail porn!"

"It's a free show, what're you complaining about?"

"I'm telling everyone you're a goddamned pervert."

"You're a riot, you know that?  Hey, look - the one with the blue flower on its shell is taking the lead."

"Nah, the big one with the green cross is gonna cut across it."

"Two coppers says it changes direction at the last minute."

"You're on."

There were long minutes of bizarre tension.  Blue Flower slowed down and seemed to be considering its options.  Green Cross was disconcerted to find Blue Flower in its path and also halted, eyestalks flailing.  A smaller snail with a pink and yellow swirl on its shell discovered a sudden burst of speed and cruised past both of them in the stately manner of the Barge Royal sweeping up the Terilee.  The courting couple decided they weren't compatible after all and took off in opposite directions.

"Aw, c'mon Green Cross!" Hawkeye said indignantly.  "Wake up and smell the parsley, will ya?"

Green Cross abruptly decided that some sorrel was more interesting and heaved to, changing direction.

"Yes!  You owe me two coppers," Dean crowed.

"That was rigged!  Somebody squeezed the sorrel."

"Don't be a sore loser."

Pink And Yellow Swirl was making good progress towards some lettuce, but a new contender with little white spots all over its shell was also picking up speed.  Blue Flower rediscovered its sense of adventure and set off once more, only to collide with a fat snail with red stripes on its shell.  Blue Flower took fright and retreated into its shell; Red Stripes calmly climbed over it and continued on its way.

White Spots and Pink And Yellow Swirl were neck and neck now, and all around the table bets were changing hands.  There was some heated debate about whether a feisty snail with a black blob might yet beat them to it, and Green Cross was getting serious about the sorrel.  Red Stripes was abruptly disqualified when its owner lost his head and tried to nudge it.

Pink And Yellow Swirl discovered some extra reserves of speed and pulled ahead again; its owner was nearly dancing with excitement, and even Hawkeye found himself urging it on.  Black Blob and White Spots found themselves in each other's path and paused for some aggressive eyestalking at each other.  That was all Pink And Yellow Swirl needed, and it swooped unhurriedly down upon the coveted lettuce.  Moments later Green Cross made it to the sorrel, and perhaps realising that being placed second meant its time on this earth was limited, immediately began chowing down.

"I feel like I ought to be worried that I enjoyed that," Hawkeye commented, as the winning owner crowed over Pink And Yellow Swirl on its lettuce leaf, and the other owners surrendered their principals to the referee before settling up any bets.

Dean only grinned.  "Want to watch the intermediates race?"

"Lead me to it."

xXx

"Those are not normal snails, right?" Hawkeye said as they left the second room after the intermediate race.  "I mean - they're huge."

"Some kind of special snail someone brought back from the Pelagir Hills originally, I think," Dean said.  "They breed 'em around here, not just for racing but for cooking too.  I mean, you _can_ eat ordinary snails - it was one of the first things I learned to forage for when I was a kid.  It's a cheap meal, you know?  But these are bigger and have a better flavour.  They don't cook the really big ones, though, they're too chewy."

"How big do they get?"

"You'll see when we watch the big race." 

But when they looked into that room, there were no snails in sight and no sign of the race starting yet.  Dean queried one of the men hanging around and discovered there was nearly a half-candlemark to go before that race started.  There was also a strong, pleasant odour of fried garlic and onions in the air along with a curiously sweet, fishy scent.

"You know what, let's eat while we wait," he decided, and they headed back to the taproom and bagged a table.

Their meal arrived on a big tray; two plates of boiled noodles, a plate of toasted bread, and a selection of dishes containing snails in onion sauce, snails in garlic butter, smoked snails dusted with dark red pepper, and some viciously sour pickled vegetables.  There was also a glazed clay bottle wrapped in woven straw and two small cups.

" _Tsipas,_ " Dean said, pouring them a measure of the clear liquid each.  They solemnly touched cups - "To the winner of the big race, whoever that is," Hawkeye pronounced - and knocked the drink back, then had to wait for their breath to return and their eyes to stop watering.

"I know what I'm giving Tasha for Midwinter now," Hawkeye wheezed.

"You could give some to Kolsen too," Dean suggested.

"Nah, I'll just bring him here for a meal.  Broaden his horizons."

"Try the food and see if you're gonna like the horizons, first," Dean advised him.

"It smells pretty good," Hawkeye said, eyeing the plates warily.

"Try the fried ones first.  The smoked ones are stronger."  This didn't stop Dean dumping a pile of the smoked snails onto his noodles and helping himself to the pickles.

Hawkeye cautiously sampled the fried snails and admitted, with some surprise, that they were pretty tasty.  He liked the ones in onion sauce too, but his expression upon tasting the smoked snails sent Dean into fits of laughter.

"How the hell do you have any tastebuds left?" he demanded, after he'd washed his mouth out with more _tsipas._

"The pickles kinda take the edge off the pepper," Dean explained.

"All the pickles do is strip any remaining skin off the inside of your mouth," Hawkeye retorted, but he was grinning.  "Gimme some of that toast.  So, back there at the barracks ... you usually get 'em all staring at you like you're a sideshow act?"

Dean rolled his eyes.  "Like I said, only if I take my shirt off!  Pretty sure most of 'em were there to see you today.  Not like one of the Queen's Bowmen turns up every day, let alone _you_.  Plus, you know, you've got the whole 'no sleeves' thing goin' on."

"What, you mean – "  Hawkeye deliberately flexed his biceps, and Dean nearly choked on a mouthful of noodles when the people at the nearest tables all stopped eating to watch.

"Look, if you're gonna keep doin' that, we need to start passing a hat around."

"Yeah, no, I was done with that shit when I left the circus, thanks."  Hawkeye helped himself to more of the fried snails.  "You'd think a bunch of Guards wouldn't be easily impressed." 

"Yeah, well there's a lot of female recruits at Water Street right now," Dean said, amused.

Hawkeye shrugged indifferently.

"You're really not interested, are you?"

"In women?  Not like that."  Hawkeye raised his eyebrows.  "Why, are you?"

"Sure, I love women."  Dean made a face.  "Or I did, until Cas turned up."

That made the archer grin.  "You sound so pissed off about it!"

"It is _not_ funny," Dean told him.  "I'm practically celibate, thanks to the lifebond thing!"

"I didn't know it worked like that," Hawkeye said, studying him curiously.  "I mean, I know all the songs go on about lifebonded couples having eyes only for each other and all that sappy horseshit, but seriously?"

Dean stared at him.  "He's only on the other side of the city.  I'm an asshole, man, but not _that_ kind of an asshole."

"Fair enough.  But ... could you?  If you wanted to?"

Because Dean liked him well enough to be honest, he gave the question serious consideration.  "Um, no.  I just …"  He sighed.  "Look, contrary to what Ellen thinks, it wasn't like I was screwing everything in sight even before I met Cas.  I never had _time!_   Even before I made Captain, it was only an occasional thing - I got up to more fun and high jinks before I made Senior Constable.  Besides, there's a lot of other stuff with Cas, like the MindSpeech.  We're in each other's heads a lot, and thanks to the lifebond thing shields are only partly effective between us.  Even if I wanted to fool around - and I don't - he'd know about it, I wouldn't be able to keep it from him."

"A lot of guys would find all of that a problem," Hawkeye commented soberly.

"I know.  My old man sure would have."  Dean shrugged.  "We make it work, and I'm good with where we're at.  There are a lot of things that are important in life, and I'm not saying sex isn't, 'cause I like it as much as the next guy, but I don't believe anyone ever died because they couldn't have it.  I'm just saying I've got a lot of other things that are worthwhile, and Cas is one of the biggest of 'em."

There was a pause.  Then Hawkeye said, with an odd little smile, "Now you know why I came to Valdemar."

Den blinked at him.  "Huh?"

"Worthwhile things," the archer clarified.

Dean poured them both another measure of _tsipas_ and they touched cups again.  "To worthwhile things," he said, and they tossed it back.

xXx

The big race was clearly a serious business in some respects - there were definitely people there who had, if such a thing wasn't too hilarious for words, _trained_ snails that were veterans in these competitions and heavily backed by enthusiastic local fans.  That said, it was a sport with a lot of room for ambitious newcomers, to the point where there was a woman to one side of the room managing a table stacked with mesh-fronted boxes holding snails of every conceivable size and shape that could be bought - or, more accurately, hired - by amateurs for the fun of trying their hand at snail racing.

Hawkeye, much to Dean's delight, was keen to have a go.  (Possibly it was due to the _tsipas_ at this point, the two of them having put away a fair quantity, but neither of them was questioning it.)  He was fascinated by the huge snails, some of which were the size of a man's closed fist, and when it became clear that he, a novice, was intending to hire one to compete, he was besieged by people keen to offer the benefit of their advice.  Dean found himself edged out of the way, which he didn't mind because it was funnier to watch Hawkeye trying to assimilate the often conflicting opinions thrown at him by people with varying levels of fluency in Valdemaran.  When he finally emerged he was carrying a box containing a sizeable snail whose shell had been painted over with two bands in contrasting shades of purple.  Some of his advisors were still arguing over the matter, while others were shaking their heads ruefully.

"I like purple," Hawkeye defended his choice to Dean.

Dean held up his hands.  "Whatever, man!  That … is a really big snail."  The beautifully coiled shell might be uniformly purple now, but the snail's body was an odd mustard yellow colour with an aggressive pattern of stripes and dots in dark brown.  It was climbing vigorously around its small cage, its eyestalks swaying and twitching.

"She said not to take it out until the race starts … not sure why."  Hawkeye held the cage up to eye level.  "Look at it move!"

"Yeah, I hear they bite."  Dean had no idea if that was true, but he'd certainly heard it mentioned.

Hawkeye gave him a disbelieving look.  "Come on …!"

"Yeah, seems kinda unlikely but - "

The referee was saying something, and then everyone headed for the big table, the contestants being urged into place.  This race was played differently; instead of a circular cloth, there was a heavy wooden 'track' on the table with row after row of smooth, deep grooves leading from one side of it to the other.  Each groove was lined with a long piece of damp felt, and each contestant had a groove for their snail.  On the far side of the table more tasty fresh greenery was laid out at the end of the grooves to encourage the competitors.

At a word from the referee, the contestants took their snails out of their boxes.  Hawkeye, watching the others to see what to do, removed his snail - not without difficulty, it was heavy and had a surprising degree of suction onto the back of the box - and set it at the beginning of his groove, hanging on to the shell to prevent it setting off prematurely.  Dean watched interestedly from the sidelines, noting that only a couple of other snails were as big as Hawkeye's, but they all seemed keen.

The referee raised his handkerchief once more.  The room hushed in anticipation.

The handkerchief dropped and the snails were released.

No one could honestly say this was a fast race, but compared to common wild snails - and the smaller snails of the first two races - these were like racehorses.  Only one snail hesitated and tried to retreat into its shell; the rest set off eagerly, eyestalks waving and shells gently swaying, like galleons with a tail wind.  A few owners used artifice to encourage their principals, by dangling choice sprigs of herbs just in front of their snails on strings attached to rods.  Apparently this was admissible provided the herbs weren't close enough for the snails to touch, for two were almost immediately disqualified for this offence.

Most people limited themselves to shouting encouragement, for whatever good that might do.

Hawkeye's snail had made an excellent start, cruising ahead with admirable single-mindedness.  Dean, feeling that he owed it to his friend to support him, pledged the two pennies he'd won earlier in favour of Purple Shell's success.  There was some muted grumbling about Purple Shell's size, but the more seasoned observers seemed rather sceptical, despite its early lead.

By the time Purple Shell and its three main competitors had reached the halfway point, two snails had given up and turned around, one had abruptly retreated into its shell mid-race, and two more were disqualified for climbing out of their grooves.  Hawkeye joined the other leading owners at the other side of the table, rustling the greens temptingly to encourage their principals.

By the third quarter of the track, Dean was just beginning to think that Hawkeye might genuinely have beginner's luck when it all went wrong.

Purple Shell had been cruising along its groove quite happily when the snail in the next lane - slightly smaller, and with a shell painted with small blue fish - decided to climb the side of its groove.  There was some collective breath-holding from the audience, and the referee stood by alertly, but it didn't actually leave its lane; it was now gliding down its groove at a forty-five degree angle, its eyestalks waving a little.

And Purple Shell had noticed, its own eyestalks peering indignantly in that direction.

Back in his runner days, Dean had witnessed a relatively slow-motion collision between an old man's donkey cart and a hand-wagon pushed by a teenaged apprentice boy.  The cart had been left briefly outside a bakery and something had startled the old donkey, making it take off at a trot.  The apprentice had attempted to push his unwieldy and overloaded wagon out of the way, but the single wheel had got stuck in a rut, over-balancing it.  The incident stuck in Dean's mind ever after due to the grossly disproportionate level of chaos caused by an elderly, arthritic donkey trying to scramble over a stalled hand-wagon with its own cart still in tow.

For some reason, what happened next at the snail race forcibly brought that back to him.

Blue Fishes briefly poked its snout over the parapet of its groove and swivelled its eyestalks at Purple Shell.  Purple Shell clearly decided this was deliberate provocation and, putting on a startling burst of speed, oozed up the side of its own groove and over into Blue Fishes' lane.

"Lane jumper - disqualified!" the referee announced - but nobody was listening.

Before the fascinated eyes of the watching crowd, Purple Shell and Blue Fishes reared up at each other, eyestalks straining.  And Purple Shell attacked.

Blue Fishes, still clinging to the side of its groove at an angle, was unable to mount a defence against the sudden weight of Purple Shell crawling onto it from above.  It was knocked onto its side in the bottom of its groove, its heavy shell unbalancing it and exposing its soft, twitching underbelly.

Purple Shell latched onto this with almost casual violence and proceeded to eat its enemy alive.

The donkey had never tried to do _that_ to the handcart.

"Har!" one of the veteran watchers commented wisely, making Dean jump.  "Too big, see?  Too old.  Aggressive when old!"

Dean, stunned into silence by the gruesome spectacle of Blue Fishes getting its eyestalks ripped off, dumbly handed over the two pennies he'd staked.

Afterwards - when the woman who rented the snail to Hawkeye had retrieved Purple Shell with a chunk of Blue Fishes still sticking out of its mouth, and the winner, a much smaller snail with an incongruous religious symbol painted onto its shell, had been feted by the crowd - Dean steered Hawkeye into the taproom and stood him another measure of _tsipas_ to get him over the shock.  He also stood the owner of Blue Fishes a measure, by way of an apology.

"That - that was really gross, right?" Hawkeye said rather blankly, staring at the cup of _tsipas_ in front of him.

"Yup."  Dean knocked his cupful back and wondered if he dared have another.  He couldn't remember if the stuff gave him a hangover.

"Those things are fuckin' cannibals, man."

Screw it.  He definitely needed another shot, hangover or no.  "Drink up," he advised, catching the eye of the server.

Hawkeye tossed back the cup of _tsipas_ and then the second round as soon as it arrived.  Blue Fishes' owner drank his second measure and suddenly said tragically, in heavily accented and inebriated Valdemaran, "Their lives are so short!"  He looked to be on the verge of tears, although that could just have been the effect of the _tsipas_ fumes.

"Fuck me," Dean muttered.  He looked at Hawkeye, who was still looking traumatised and now faintly green as well.  "Yo, buddy, you all right there?"

"We ate those things for supper," he said in a faintly horrified tone.

Dean rolled his eyes.  "You had to say it, didn't you?"

"I think I'm gonna throw up."

"No kidding."

xXx

Ellen Harvelle was deeply unimpressed when they finally lurched into her bar a good two candlemarks later.  A few beers had been deemed necessary to take the taste of snails out of their mouths.

"What the hell have the pair of you been up to?" she demanded.

Hawkeye had developed hiccups somewhere between Clinker Street and Hemp Alley, and was too preoccupied with trying to control them to give her an answer, but Dean leaned over - she leaned away - and placed a fingertip carefully on the scarred wood of the bar in front of him.

"Giant - carnivorous - racing snails," he enunciated carefully.

Ellen looked resigned and disgusted in equal measures.  "You've been to that gods-forsaken snail place again, haven't you?  Your grandma should be ashamed of herself, teaching you to eat creepy-crawlies like a goddamned heathen _\- yeesh!_   Don't breathe on me!  What in the nine hells have you been drinking, Dean?"

"Only beer after the _tsipas_ ," Hawkeye assured her between hiccups.

She gave him a dour glare.  "Don't tell me he's been feeding _you_ that crap too?"

He shook his head emphatically, eyes wide.  "I don't wanna talk about it."

"Would have been better if you hadn't eaten it in the first place," she retorted sardonically.  "The pair of you better get your drunk asses up those stairs and sleep it off, if you know what's good for you.  _Tsipas_ and snails!  Some folk'll put any damn thing in their mouths."

"You're my best friend, Ellen," Dean told her earnestly.

"I'd be flattered, but right now that bar is real low," she told him, and she gave them both a shove towards the stairs.  "Bed.  Sleep.  Now.  And pray I don't feed you dandelions for breakfast."

 

**_~ finis ~_ **

 

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Okay, so there's a lot about eating snails in a variety of ways, including some stuff about how they end up in the pot - or pan - or smoker - and some mentions of other insect-based foods. I know, it's really NOT hardcore! But I managed to gross myself out by writing it, so I'm giving anyone with a weak stomach like mine a chance to bail out!
> 
> This story is for Madambeetroot, who endured text messages about things like "GIANT CARNIVEROUS RACING SNAILS OF VALDEMAR!" during the course of this story's genesis. Mind you, she did ask for the story in the first place, so she only has herself to blame.
> 
> Some background notes: It probably ought to go without saying, but snail racing is an actual Thing. There are videos on YouTube. The races I looked at all seemed to be set in the UK, which doesn't surprise me in the slightest because we also do things like carry flaming tar barrels through village streets and chase rolling cheeses down hills. We make our own fun here, people. One race described is loosely based on what I saw online; the other I made up for my own purposes.


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